


Devotion

by acidpop25



Series: Translation is an Art [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cheating, Domestic Violence (referenced), F/M, Hogwarts Seventh Year, M/M, Male-Female Friendship, Multi, Opposites Attract, Post - Deathly Hallows, Secret Relationship, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-12
Updated: 2011-12-12
Packaged: 2017-10-27 06:34:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/292690
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/acidpop25/pseuds/acidpop25
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Hermione returns to Hogwarts after the war, tentative new friendships conflict with old– and may even become something more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Devotion

The morning sun is warm on Hermione's face, warm and bright already; the day will be a hot one, tempered only by the breeze off the Mediterranean. The French Rivera had been a bit of an extravagance, but Hermione had told herself firmly that after a war, the least she deserved was a bit of a holiday.

A holiday _alone_ , thank you very much.

It's not that she doesn't love Harry and Ron, because she does, of course she does. She'd do anything for them, has been to hell and back with them. But she just needed a _break_ , needed to be away from them and all the memories and from Britain. Ron had been hurt, stared at her with a kicked-puppy look that was worse than if he had shouted, but Harry... Harry had just nodded and told her to send a postcard when she got there. And she had, because it was Harry, and he had sent a short letter with a lot left unsaid between the inane chatter about his and Ron's new flat, and that had been that. Ron never did write– stubbornness, probably– but Hermione had found she couldn't bring herself to worry about it. It seemed unimportant now, and very far away.

She sets off down the street (quiet still, this early in the morning) toward the nearest patîsserie for breakfast, a routine she had fallen into early on in her time here. A small bell on the door jingles with a quiet, bright sound when she walks inside, and the owner looks up and smiles at her as he hands a white paper bag to the thin, dark-haired man already there.

Usually she is the first one here in the morning, but it is not until she hears the stranger speak that she stops in her tracks. It's not a voice she has ever heard speak French before– come to that, it's not a voice has heard speak very much in any language, full stop– but she recognises it instantly: a quiet, rich tenor, precise and upper-crust. Hermione hasn't exchanged so much as two sentences with Theodore Nott in her life despite having had classes with him for years, wary of green and silver to begin with and hardly encouraged by the boy's standoffishness, but she remembers his voice.

When he turns to leave and catches sight of her, he, too, stops. "Hermione Granger," he says, "well. I can safely say I wasn't expecting to see you here."

She tilts her head up, half in challenge and half because, good grief, he must have had a hell of a growth spurt in seventh year. "I could say the same."

He seems inexplicably and rather irritatingly amused, though it really only registers, faintly, in his dark eyes. "Of course. Why would you expect to see _me_ anywhere?" His lips give a brief, wry twist, over almost too quickly to be sure it had been there to begin with, and he brushes past her. "Au revoir, then, Miss Granger," he says as he passes her by, leaving her alone to get her morning croissant.

She feels unsettled the whole rest of the day.

* * *

She could have let it go (probably) if that had been the last she saw of him, if it had been one lone freak coincidence, an outlier in the data of her days. But she found herself running into him in the mornings more often than not, after that. It was always the same, him leaving just as she got there, and he would give her a silent, cordial nod of his head before heading out the door. His face always betrayed nothing, and she still has no idea what on earth he is doing here in the first place.

It is, in a word, infuriating. If there is one thing Hermione hates, it is not knowing things.

It takes her a week to finally snap, to step in front of him as he is heading toward the door and demand, without preamble, "What are you doing here?"

Theodore arches a brow at her. "Getting breakfast," he answers calmly, and she huffs out a breath.

"You know that's not what I meant."

He inclines his head in acknowledgment but says nothing else, stepping around her to get to the door. In an unthinking fit of pique, Hermione catches hold of his wrist as he reaches for the handle, and they both freeze. His expression doesn't so much as flicker, but Hermione can feel her cheeks going hot, though she refuses to be the first to look away. She stares up at him stubbornly, feeling his pulse beat against her fingers and the press of his bones until he twists loose with a sharp, sure motion. This time, though, he makes no move to pass her by.

"Get your food, then," he says, and she can _feel_ his eyes on her as she does it; when she turns to face him again, he makes no pretense of not having been watching, regarding her evenly and inscrutably across the small room. After a moment, he walks out without waiting to see if she follows, and Hermione hurries after him with a huff of annoyed breath. _Rude_ , she thinks, quickening her pace to catch up and settle on one of the benches with him, but not too close. He steeples his fingers (slender, slender and white) and watches her for a moment without speaking. The slowly climbing sun paints him in a wash of bright golden light, but his expression belies the warmth of morning sunshine.

"The war wrecked everything," he finally says, "and only a small minority of the scars are physical. Seeing things, living through things no one should have to experience, and us little more than _children_. And when you finally get through it all you aren't young anymore, not after the torture and the death and the fear, but after it's finally stopped and it looks like the worst is over, you turn around and there's no place for you anymore. So you leave. You leave, because what can you do? Your old life is gone, or doesn't fit. I'm here for the same reason you are, Granger."

"Hermione." The word falls from her lips unbidden and unplanned, and something in her chest feels tight, like there's a knot of tension behind her breastbone. "You can call me Hermione."

"Hermione," he repeats quietly, then looks away, out toward the sea. His fingers have laced themselves together, a puzzle of delicate bones. They sit in silence, him watching the water and her watching him. Of all people to have voiced what she was feeling, what she was running from, she would never have expected it to be him. (Why would she ever have expected it to be _him_?)

"What comes next, then?" she murmurs, almost more to herself than to him. For a time it seems perhaps he has not heard her, or else chosen not to answer (perhaps there is no answer).

"What did you want to do, before all this happened?"

Hermione blinks. It all seems strangely trivial, strangely long ago. "Law," she answers. "I... well." A strangely self-deprecating little laugh escapes her. "I wanted to change the world."

Theo's lips quirk, not quite a smile, but the expression isn't unkind. "I think you'll find it still needs changing, even once the dust settles."

"Haven't I done my share?" It doesn't sound bitter, exactly. Mostly she just sounds tired, drained. Worn out. Theo tilts his head slightly, watching her.

"Of course," he says, "but that's the wrong question to ask."

Hermione's brow crinkles slightly. "No?"

He nods. "The question isn't if you've done your share. The question is whether that's enough for you." A keen glance. "Were I a betting man, I would would lay quite a bit of money that it isn't. You'll always feel responsible for the welfare of those around you, especially those less fortunate than yourself."

"I–" she flounders for a brief moment, uncharacteristically at a loss for words. "Since when do you know me at all?"

Theo smiles, brief and unsettling. "I just pay attention. Remarkably easy to do, when no one notices you."

 _Creepy_ , Hermione thinks succinctly, and decides it's about time to divert the topic of discussion away from herself. "What about you? What did you want to do?"

The hint of humour in his eyes flickers out at the question, and she almost regrets having asked it. "I've already done it." His tone doesn't encourage further questions. "I don't have any real plans to speak of."

"A Slytherin without a plan?" she retorts teasingly, only to pull up short as she realises she's treating a boy she barely knows like she would treat one of her mates. _What on earth do you think you're doing?_ she scolds herself, all the more sharply because she has a nagging feeling she knows _exactly_ what she's doing, and exactly why she shouldn't be.

"I know. It's a disgrace, really. Though I _was_ almost a Ravenclaw."

"Really? Me too. Not that that's much of a shock to anyone."

There is a pause. "Did you ask the hat to put you in Gryffindor, then?"

"I... may have implied I'd like to be there," Hermione hedges. "You?"

Theo frowns a little, gaze oddly distant. "I'm my father's son," he says after a moment.

Hermione knows it's an answer, but not to the question she asked.

* * *

"It's a fundamentally flawed system," Hermione is saying, and comes dangerously near to sloshing her café au lait on the table when she gestures.

"Of _course_ it is," Theo retorts, trying not to roll his eyes. He almost succeeds. "It's a government, Hermione, it's inefficient and corrupt by definition."

"Cynic."

"Dreamer."

"At least I'm willing to try and do something."

"Commendable, to be sure." He sips his coffee, looking at her over the edge of the cup, then adds, "I never said I wasn't, however."

"You implied it."

"Not at all. I simply don't think an overhaul of the system, flawed though it may be currently, will actually work. There's no such thing as a utopia, and you of all people should know that."

"But it could be _improved_."

"Possibly. But you could also put that productive energy to use working within what you've got, and besides, do you really think society has the energy to revolutionise its government after it's just been through a war?"

He's got a point. Hermione can never quite decide if she hates that or loves that about him– they don't see the world the same way, not at all, but he _thinks_ , has a razor-sharp mind hidden behind the mask of reserve. She regrets, now, that she had never noticed before, but they have been making up for lost time over longer and longer breakfasts.

"So say you do that," Hermione says, "hypothetically. How do you propose to work to eliminate prejudice through an institution that is, itself, prejudiced? That's ridiculous on the face of it."

"Well, clearly if you just storm in and demand that the Ministry reverse laws reflective of centuries of tradition– fair or not– you won't get anywhere. Politics requires a lighter touch than that."

She smiles slightly, just a little curve of her lips. "You don’t strike me as a politician, Theo."

"Merlin, no," he agrees quickly, with a slight shudder. "I would hate to _do_ it, but that doesn't mean I don't take an interest."

"You take an interest in everything."

"Not true. I detest Herbology."

She tilts her head. "Herbology? Really?"

"Plants _hate_ me," he says, with some feeling. "The dangerous ones try to kill me, and the rest practically wither and die as soon as I look at them."

"I always liked it. But we weren't discussing Herbology."

"No, we weren't, and I'm sure I had a point I wanted to make..."

"Politics, light touch?"

"Right, yes. You can't just barge in like, well, a Gryffindor. If it's a corrupt and underhanded system, you need to make allowances for that."

Hermione's eyes narrow. "Be corrupt and underhanded yourself, you mean."

"Precisely."

" _Slytherin_."

"And here I thought we had already established that."

"The ends don't justify the means," Hermione says, rather hotly. "If you do that kind of thing you're just as bad as them, you're just encouraging to what you should be trying to avoid!"

"And if you don't do that kind of thing you get nothing accomplished, and your stubborn moral rigidity will ensure the status quo never changes. You can't possibly tell me that sits well with your conscience either."

"It's different."

"How so?"

"Because I can try to make the world a better place for everyone, but I'm not the only person who can. But I _am_ the only person who can make myself a better or worse person with my choices. Manipulation is still manipulation, and at the end of the day I have to be able to live with my choices."

"You'd be surprised what you can live with," Theo murmurs, and leaves it at that.

* * *

Theo leaves France before she does, and Hermione finds herself missing the arguments over breakfast, the lightning-quick workings of a mind so different from her own. He hadn't said where he was going, back to England or off to somewhere else, and Hermione had not asked, though not for lack of curiosity. It simply wasn't her business. Theodore Nott is not a friend, she tells herself. A friend is someone like Harry, like Ron, and Theo couldn't be more different from either.

When she returns to England, she is almost immediately dragged off to Harry and Ron's flat, which she dutifully admires despite her fatigue from a day of hassling with International Floo and the fact that the flat is really nothing special. It's _theirs_ , though, and neither of them has ever really had a place of their own in their whole lives. They've been waiting for this, haven't they? The chance to live their own lives. To be _free_.

Free. Hermione's tired smile flickers a little, just for a split second, too brief for either of them to notice.

"Well, it seems like you two did all right without me," she says, and adds teasingly, "which, I have to say, is pretty surprising."

"Oh, come off it, Hermione," Ron says with a snort, "we're adults now. The world is our, er, whatsit."

"Oyster, Ron. The world is our oyster."

"Right." A pause. "Oyster, really? Seems like a bloody stupid thing to want the world to be."

Harry chuckles. "Just a saying, mate. How was France, Hermione?"

"France was... it was good," she answers, smiling over her careful response. "It was nice to relax for a while, you know? After everything."

"Relaxing, huh?" Ron grins. "How many books did you read, then?"

"Reading is relaxing!" she protests indignantly, even though she knows he's only teasing. Hermione glares at him, but he and Harry both just start laughing, and after a moment so does she, less because it's funny and more because it's a relief, it's a relief that the three of them can still _be_ the three of them, that even though their lives have been difficult their friendship doesn't have to be.

"For you, maybe. You and Ravenclaws."

Hermione rolls her eyes. "Well, you still have one more year of it."

There is an uncomfortable silence as both the boys exchange uneasy glances, but neither quite meets her eyes. Ron mumbles something inaudible and shifts awkwardly, and when Harry looks up, it's with trepidation.

"Actually..."

"Actually what?"

"The Ministry is running short of Aurors," Harry says, "and, well, they said they'd take us on straight away to start training and help out."

"You're _not finishing?!_ " Her voice goes shrill enough that both boys wince, even though if they know her at all they were expecting it.

"Normal people don't _look forward_ to taking their NEWTS, Hermione," Ron says, and she glowers at him.

She makes an inarticulate noise of frustration and rounds on Harry instead, knowing he's the easier target. "You always said you didn't want to be given things just because you're the Boy Who Lived," she scolds, "and now you're turning around and skipping an exam that the rest of us still have to take! How is that not special treatment?!" Hermione knows she's hit home as soon as she's said it– Harry has always been pretty terrible at hiding what he's feeling, and she knows him well– and she feels a brief twinge of guilt for bringing it up, but only a brief one. It's not even that they're skipping their NEWTS, not really, but that is easy to be angry about, so much easier than _they're leaving me behind_ and all the panic and hurt welling up in her chest at the thought of being alone, being without them, after all this time. Bringing that up will bring tears with her shouts, and she doesn't want to cry over something so _stupid_ , so stupid and little after all they've been through.

But if it's about exams, she can just yell.

"They made you the same offer," Harry says rather than trying to respond to her accusation, and pushes a rather wrinkled roll of parchment from the end table into her hands. Hermione takes it automatically, unrolling it with a sharp motion that nearly tears it. The offer is good, of course the offer is good, but she has never wanted to be an Auror and always thought that there were other evils besides Dark wizards to fight. Hermione draws in a breath and pinches the bridge of her nose for a moment before letting the parchment roll back in on itself.

"I want to finish school," she tells them, sounding not so much angry as tired. "I just want things to be normal again."

"This can wait," Harry replies. "Look, I'm sorry I brought it up. You've been traveling all day, you must be exhausted, and we sort of sprung it on you."

"I guess I _am_ a little tired," Hermione admits, and Ron smiles at her, one of those open, easy smiles of his.

"Go get some rest, then," he says, and reaches out a hand to ruffle the ends of her hair. His cheeks colour a little, after, when the thoughtlessly affectionate gesture registers, but Harry just smiles slightly at both of them and tells her goodnight.

* * *

"What do you mean, you're _not going back?!_ " Draco's voice scales up a bit higher than he'd have liked, but Theo, in what Draco can only assume is a rare fit of mercy, refrains from commenting on that.

"I really don't know how I can make that any clearer than it is."

Draco huffs. "How can you, Theodore Studies-Too-Much Nott, possibly skip your last year of school?"

"Well, I didn't, did I?"

"And I'm sure you got such a quality education."

"I filled in the... shall we say, gaps in the curriculum, on my own time. And what with NEWTS having been pushed back, I felt ready to take them, so." A shrug. "I did."

For a moment Draco just stares after him. "You," he finally says, "are insane."

"Perhaps. I did very well, though."

"How well is "very well?"" Draco asks suspiciously, and Theo arches a brow.

"That would just be bragging."

"I hate you," Draco mutters, but it lacks conviction. Nonetheless, something in Theo's expression flickers, briefly.

"And you're a spoiled brat who never really knows what he wants, but here I am," he says quietly. Their gazes hold for a long moment; it is Draco who finally looks away.

"I didn't expect you to come back. After everything–"

"Draco." The interruption is soft, and what really makes Draco break off is the hand laid on top of his own, the suddenly intent look in Theo's dark eyes. "I know I wasn't there when you needed me, I know I pushed you away when you had nowhere to go, I know I couldn't help when you were desperate. You made your choices and I made mine, but that doesn't mean I didn't care."

Draco swallows hard. "Don't _do_ that," he says, the resentment in his voice at war with the emotion in his eyes, "don't make me want you _back_ , not– you were the one who didn't stay, you– _damnit_ , Theodore, what good does that do? I was a fucking child, I wasn't ready for– and then it's all over and I'm amazed I even got a trial, never mind not getting thrown in Azkaban, and where the hell were you?!"

This time, it is Theo who looks away. "Scared." The word is barely more than a whisper. "I was scared."

"So was I!" the admission is angry, and Theo almost winces. "I was _terrified_ , and you weren't there!"

"What was I supposed to do, Draco, take the Mark to make you _feel better?!_ The whole thing was a bloody tightrope act, trying to keep my head down and keep my father from fucking killing me– and I don't mean that figuratively– and it's not like you listened to me anyway."

"How the hell could I listen when my _family_ was on the line?! When it's a choice between your parents' safety or ethics, how is that a choice?!"

"I wouldn't know about that, would I?" Theo retorts, voice acid, "It's not like I ever had any family worth mentioning."

Draco's mouth snaps shut with a click of teeth. "I didn't mean–"

"I know. Just leave it." Theo scrubs a hand distractedly through his hair with a sigh. "I get why you did it. But our situations weren't the same."

There's a long moment of silence. "You're braver than me," Draco finally says at length, without looking at him, "scared or not. If my father were like yours... I wouldn't have said no."

Theo shakes his head. "It wasn't courage."

"Like hell."

Another pause.

"We can't go back. To how things were, I mean. Not now."

The words hurt more than he wants them to, but it doesn't register on Draco's face. "I guess not."

"We could try starting over, though."

Draco looks up at him sharply, searchingly, without answering right away. He doesn't find any answers in his scrutiny, however; Theo has always been hard to read.

"You think that would work?"

"I don't know," he answers, "but we could try it. If you wanted." His calm is betrayed only by the tension in his shoulders, and it's an obscure relief to Draco to know that Theo is probably every bit as unsteady as he is himself, even if he doesn't show it.

"Well," he finally says coolly, "It's not as though people are likely to be lining up for a former Death Eater, even one so handsome as myself, so I suppose you'll have to do."

Theo finally smiles at Draco for the first time in two years. "Prick," he says, "missed you, too."

* * *

Hermione sets her spoon down on her saucer with a soft clink before picking up her teacup and cradling it in her hands, blowing gently on the steaming liquid to cool it down enough to drink. "So," she finally says, between soft exhalations, "we should probably talk."

"Yeah," Ron agrees, "guess we should." He swallows a gulp of his tea, then sets it down. "I've been thinking– don't give me that look," he adds, when Hermione's lips curl up teasingly at the corners, "I've been thinking about, you know. The stuff you said. And you should do your last year if you want to, and I only gave you hard time about it because... because I don't want to be away from you for a year, alright? I'm going to miss you."

Hermione purses her lips and glances down. "Did it ever occur to you," she says after a moment, "that maybe I wanted you to go back with me for the same reason?"

A look of _oh_ dawns on Ron's face, and he reaches over the table to pluck her teacup from her hands and set it down before lacing his fingers with hers. "You'll be okay," he says, easy and certain in a way she isn't at all. Hermione sighs and gives his hand a gentle squeeze.

"I don't want you to... to take this the wrong way, Ron," she says hesitantly, without letting go, "because I care about you. I care about you a lot. But I think maybe... maybe we shouldn't be, you know. Boyfriend and girlfriend, officially, until I'm done at Hogwarts. Not because I don't want to," she says hurriedly, at the rather stricken look on Ron's face, "and not because I want to see other people, or anything like that. I just think... you'll be really busy with Auror training, and I'll be really busy with my studies and preparing for NEWTS, and we won't be near each other. And I think calling it that would be a lot of pressure and, and I'm not making sense, am I, I'm sorry." The words come out in an anxious rush, and this had all sounded like a much, much better idea in her head.

"No, no, wait." He shakes his head a little, as if to clear it. "Just slow down. So you're saying you want us to... be an us, but you just don't want to... call it that, yet?"

"I... well, yes. I just think... we're both trying to sort ourselves out, I don't want to be extra pressure. I don't want us to be work for each other, or be something to worry about. But I _do_ care about you, Ron, and when we can be by each other again, and things settle down, I'd love to– to be your girlfriend. If you still want me to be." Her cheeks go hot as she says it, but Ron grins.

"Bloody hell, Hermione, of course I do. I've been waiting since fourth year."

"So... you can do one more, then?"

Ron eyes her for a moment, smiling crookedly. "Depends," he says slowly, "do I still get to snog you when I see you, while you're my not-girlfriend?"

"Ronald!" she cries, going even redder, and Ron's smile widens into a grin.

"Yeah, Hermione?"

"You... God, you're such a _boy_."

"Oi. _Man_ ," he protests mildly, puffing out his chest. A laugh bubbles past Hermione's lips despite herself, and Ron adds, "War hero, I'll have you know."

"You and me both," she tells him with a smile, picking up her tea again. Ron cocks his head at her.

"So is that a yes on the snogging?"

Hermione rolls her eyes. " _Yes_ , Ronald," she says primly, "now drink your tea."

* * *

"Well," Draco says, "this would be the part where we say goodbye, and you tell me you're going to pine horribly in my absence."

Theo smiles, very slightly. "I'll pine," he agrees, then adds as an afterthought, "Merlin knows why, though."

Draco digs an elbow into Theo's ribs. "Because I'm a beacon of light in your gloomy existence."

"Maybe," Theo says, tilting his head and pretending to consider, "or it could just be the sex." His eyes sparkle slightly, amused, and Draco heaves a falsely put-upon sigh.

"I will expect you to visit on weekends," Draco informs him and Theo nods.

"I know." He glances at his watch. "You're going to be late if you stay here too much longer."

"Yeah." Draco doesn't sound particularly enthused. "I guess I'd better just..."

"Yeah."

They are still for a long moment, just looking at one another, then Theo abruptly steps forward and pulls Draco into a tight hug, and Draco tenses in his arms.

"Theo, what are you–"

"Your father's not here, my father is dead, and I don't care what anyone else thinks," Theo interrupts, "so shut up and stop worrying how you look for once in your life."

Draco swallows and wraps his arms around Theo, trying to quell the flutter of anxiety in the pit of his stomach. "This isn't very restrained of you, Theo."

"On the contrary."

"Oh?"

Theo bends his head slightly, voice low in Draco's ear. "If I weren't being restrained, I would be kissing you right now."

Draco draws in a breath. "Oh."

Another moment, and Theo lets go; the only reticence he shows is in his eyes. Draco picks up his trunk and smiles a little, faintly. "See you around, Nott," he says, and heads on to the train.

"I _knew_ Malfoy was a pouf!" Ron crows on the other end of the platform, startling Hermione out of what was probably some pretty undignified staring. "No one straight wears that much hair gel!"

"Ron!" Hermione exclaims. "That's a _complete_ stereotype, you should know better."

"Okay, fine, but. That?" Ron flaps a hand vaguely in the direction of Theo, who is still standing on the platform, apparently entirely unconcerned about the eyes on him. "That was pretty gay, Hermione."

"You know, it's an absurd double-standard, this societal expectation that men can't show affection for one another without it being considered abnormal," Hermione says, and Ron turns to Harry.

"Harry. Breaking societal whatsits, or poufs?"

Harry glances between them, looking rather hunted. "Well," he hedges, "Slytherins _do_ usually worry about what people think of them more than that..."

"He's saying, gay," Ron translates, and Hermione huffs out a breath.

"Even supposing they are, I don't see why it matters."

"Are you kidding? It's bloody brilliant! There won't be any snotty ferret-faced spawn if he's a shirt-lifter."

Hermione opens her mouth to protest, but Harry beats her to it.

"Leave off, Ron." He sounds almost tired. "School's done, war's over. Just let it go. I'm sick of fighting, with Malfoy or about him."

"Sorry, mate."

Hermione crinkles her brow thoughtfully. "What about Parkinson?"

"What about her?"

"Wasn't Malfoy dating her in sixth year?"

"Probably cover," Ron says, at the same time Harry answers, "yes."

"Hm," Hermione hums. Her gaze slides back to Theo. He doesn't _seem_ gay, but then again, how does anyone "seem gay?" That's no more logical than Ron's hair gel comment, she supposes, and decides, firmly, to let it drop. She has better things to worry about than Theo and Malfoy and the possible gayness thereof. "I should go. Before the train does."

"Yeah, you should," Ron agrees, a little reluctantly. "Want help with your trunk?"

"I can get it," she says, flashing a brief smile up at him, "but thanks." Hermione leans up on tiptoe and presses a kiss to his lips, lingering long moments before letting herself fall back flat on her feet and giving Harry a quick hug goodbye then picking up her trunk.

"Write me, both of you!" she scolds over her shoulder as she heads to the train.

"We won't!" Ron calls back cheekily, waving her off, and Hermione laughs and scrambles up the steps just as the train whistle blows.

* * *

"I hear you and Theo had quite a touching little display on the platform," says a clear female voice over Draco's shoulder, "if perhaps not involving quite as much touching as you would have liked."

Draco turns to see Tracey Davis standing just inside the dormitory, leaning against the door frame and watching him with cool, measuring blue eyes. His own eyes narrow slightly as he meets her gaze; he has never cared for her much, though Theo inexplicably adores the girl. Draco refuses to concede that this may be precisely why he dislikes her.

"I'm surprised you weren't there to say goodbye to him," Draco answers, neatly diverting the conversation, then pauses for a moment, in the middle of stacking books under his nightstand. "Come to think of it, where is everybody?"

"It's a sad day when I'm more in the know than you, Malfoy," Tracey retorts, and starts ticking off names on her fingers. "Theo you know about, Pansy seemed to think her last year might be better spent at Beauxbatons, Daphne was overjoyed at an excuse to essentially get out of 7th year, and Goyle has never exactly been the type for education either. I don't know where Millicent's at."

There is a moment's pause. "Blaise?"

The slow smile that curves Tracey's lips isn't very nice. "Theo didn't mention?" she asks, in the light tone of voice that Draco knows means she is about to tell him something he doesn't want to hear. "Blaise is with Theo. They'll be seeing an _awful_ lot of each other, I expect... all those long, stressful hours in close quarters for Unspeakable training..."

"Davis," Draco says, rather sharply, "I know you're not _actually_ hoping Theo will sleep with Blaise, because you would be hard-pressed to think of a choice that has any more potential to make Theo's life miserable, and you are _sickeningly_ devoted to that boy. So if you would kindly stop trying to chase me off from him, it would be appreciated."

Tracey eyes him for a long moment, appraising. "You serious about him this time?"

"I was serious about him the first time."

"And look how well that ended up," she answers waspishly; he has to admit she has a point there.

"Circumstances were... different."

"Yeah, well. If _circumstances_ manage to wind up with you hurting him again, they may also lead to me hurting you considerably more literally."

Draco huffs out a breath. "Look, _he_ left _me_ , not the other way around."

"Because you took the Mark, Draco, what the hell did you expect?"

"My family was–"

" _Everyone's_ families were in danger!" Tracey snaps, eyes flashing. "Mine _died_ in that war rather than do the things you and your parents did, so don't you _dare_ talk to me about necessity. You had a choice."

Draco suddenly just feels very, very tired. "I was sixteen, Tracey."

"So was Theo."

"Theo is hardly a fair example. He wasn't young even when we were children, and he's always been smarter than any of us. You know that."

After a moment, faint smile quirks her lips. "I'm telling him you said so."

Draco groans. "Please don't, he'll be insufferable."

Tracey's smile broadens then, turns amused but mischievous. "What are you going to give me to keep it quiet, then?"

"Gracious failure to mention that you're trying to send me into a fit of jealous paranoia?"

"You know he won't get angry at me for that."

"He doesn't get angry at you for _anything_ ," Draco says, rolling his eyes. "I can't figure it out, it's not like he's getting sex from you."

"I have wiles, clearly."

"Clearly."

Tracey pushes herself off the door frame, straightening. "Tell you what, I'll just hold out on this information until I need to extort something out of you, shall I?" It's a rhetorical question; she is already turning to leave. "Goodnight, Draco."

"Night," he answers, watching her go, then shuts the door with a flick of his wand once she is out of sight. It is too quiet in the dormitory as he finishes putting his things away, and much too quiet when he climbs into bed with a muttered _nox_. There is no familiar snoring from Crabbe and Goyle, no quiet breathing from Blaise, no restless shifting from Theo in his habitual insomnia. Just silence.

It takes him a long time to fall asleep.

* * *

It's been bothering Hermione since she got here, how _quiet_ everything is. There are still places in the school too damaged to go, still topics too freshly painful to discuss– and so they aren't discussed. The girls' dorm for her year is usually full of the bright, shallow chatter of Parvati and Lavender, but now they merely greet both her and each other quietly and don't talk about much else. Once, briefly, Parvati wonders aloud what the new Defense professor will be like. Hermione says that she's sure the Headmistress wouldn't hire someone who wasn't good; Lavender merely shrugs, sitting quiet and curled up at the head of her bed.

It's just _weird_ , frankly. Hermione has spent years hating their insipid chatter, fleeing to the library whenever she needs to hear about something other than boys or makeup or Divination; she shouldn't miss it. But as if it were all the little noises of a house that are always just on the edge of your consciousness, everything seems strange and too-silent now that the babble is suddenly gone. She doesn't blame them, but it eats at her too much for her to stay in her dorm, and she doesn't want to search out Ginny– that way lies being grilled about what she's heard from Harry, and Hermione could do without those conversations, thank you very much. Let them figure things out on their own.

On quiet, careful feet, Hermione makes her way out of Gryffindor, barely aware of her destination until she reaches it.

" _What can run but never walks, has a mouth but never talks, has a head but never weeps, has a bed but never sleeps?_ "

Hermione is quiet for long moments, brow crinkled in thought as she regards the guardian of Ravenclaw Tower.

"A river," she finally says, and the door swings open with a murmur of, "Well done, very well done."

The Ravenclaw common room is quiet, too, but a studious quiet, though a few of them look up and greet her. There's no sign of the person she's looking for, though, and she's about to give up and go back when Padma says, without looking up from her book, "She's in her dorm. The stairs on the left."

Hermione doesn't bother to question how Padma knew why she's here, just murmurs her thanks and climbs the indicated stair. The Ravenclaw dorms are almost identical to Gryffindor's, save for the colour of the hangings and the addition of bookshelves crammed haphazardly full of useful texts. In the middle of it all is Luna, lying on her stomach on her bed with a sheet of parchment and a drawing pencil. She looks up when Hermione walks in, smiling in that distant but delighted way of hers, and scoots over to one side of her bed with an awkward wriggling-shimmying motion.

"Hello, Hermione."

"Hi, Luna." Hermione perches uncertainly on the edge of the bed beside Luna, already wondering if maybe this wasn't a bad idea. Not that she doesn't like Luna– she does, exasperating as she is– but she doesn't know how to _talk_ to her, either, or have any notion of what to talk about. Her gaze alights on the parchment, which is slowly filling with an undecipherable tangle of lines and shading.

"What are you drawing?"

"I have to be drawing something?"

Hermione frowns. "If you're not drawing, what are you doing?"

"Of course I'm drawing," Luna replies, "but I'm not drawing a _thing_."

"Oh." Hermione leans over, tilting her head to look at the parchment from Luna's angle. It _is_ rather pretty, though a little confusing for her eyes to follow for too long. "It's an abstract, then?"

"You can call it that," she agrees amiably as she begins shading in an elaborate swirl near the edge of the page. "Do you draw, Hermione?"

"Me? Oh, no. You're quite good, though. I remember the painting in your room."

Luna beams. "Thank you. You should try sometime, it's very relaxing."

"I'm sure it is," Hermione demurs, and adds mentally, _if you're any good at it._ If Luna picks up on the unspoken thought, though, she gives no sign, just produces another piece of parchment from under the first and hands it to Hermione.

"There's another pencil on my nightstand, there."

"I don't know if–"

"You learn more from trying things you don't know, than doing things you do," Luna interrupts gently, and Hermione hesitates for a long moment, then finally leans over to pick up the spare pencil. Luna smiles, half to herself, and bends her head back to her own parchment as Hermione thinks to herself, _what now?_

It's become a very familiar question lately.

They sit in silence but for the sound of pencils– Hermione has settled on sketching Luna herself, leaned over her work in profile, which is proving more difficult than she would have thought. Hermione huffs out a frustrated breath as she erases the line of a nose for what must be the fifth or sixth time.

"Luna," she says suddenly, as she shifts her efforts to Luna's upper lip, "have you ever... wanted something you shouldn't?"

Luna glances up and blinks her wide grey eyes once, twice, before looking down again. "Like what?"

"Like..." Hermione frowns slightly. "Like, you've got what you thought you wanted, and it's good, but then at the same time you start thinking, maybe you wanted something else after all, only you know the something else would probably only cause problems and it isn't safe like what you've already got, and it's stupid for you to even be thinking about it, but you can't really keep yourself from doing so."

There is a pause.

"I never thought you and Ronald were particularly good for each other, actually," Luna says, and Hermione's frown deepens.

"Why do– how did you–"

"The thing about you and Ronald," Luna interrupts calmly, cutting off Hermione's half-formed questions, "is that you both always need Harry between you to make things work."

"But I lo– I care about Ron."

"Of course you do. But that doesn't mean you're a stable couple. Besides, you're young, it's only natural you notice other boys. Ronald isn't here, and loving him doesn't stop your body from needing sex."

"Luna!"

"Yes?"

"You don't just _say_ that kind of thing."

"Why not?"

"Because..." Hermione shakes her head. "Never mind."

Luna reaches over and pats Hermione's shoulder. "You don't need to feel guilty about noticing other boys," she assures her. "I'm sure Ronald notices other girls."

 _That_ thought leaves a sinking feeling in the pit of Hermione's stomach. "Um. Well. Thanks, Luna. But I should get back to Gryffindor, it's getting late."

"All right," Luna agrees, and smiles up at Hermione as she gets to her feet. "It was nice of you to come visit me."

"Oh. Well, you're welcome. And thanks for... this." Hermione gestures vaguely, a motion that could equally mean 'the conversation' or 'flippers.' "Goodnight, Luna."

"Goodnight. Don't let the bedbugs bite, they sting horribly."

"That's just an expression, you know," Hermione replies on reflex, but makes her escape before Luna can launch into one of her winding explanations. Right now, she simply doesn't have the energy for that.

Once she is safely out of Ravenclaw, Hermione crumples the piece of parchment she is still carrying into a tight ball and concludes all over again that she'll never be much good at anything she can't look up in a book.

* * *

"If you would all divide into pairs, please," Professor Babbling says, "I will distribute your assignments. Please bear in mind that you will be working in these pairs for the rest of term, and this project will constitute the majority of your mark."

The students in seventh year Ancient Runes promptly begin scrambling for partners, friends pairing with friends, and Hermione casts about the room looking for one of the Ravenclaws she's worked with in the past only to find they have paired with each other already– Terry with Anthony, Padma with Mandy.

"Done?" Professor Babbling asks, as the chatter and shuffling dies down. "Anyone without a partner, raise your hand."

Hermione's cheeks flush faintly as she raises her hands, feeling like the strange little girl in muggle primary school all over again, but the embarrassment is replaced with horror when she sees who else has their hand raise.

Brown eyes meet ice grey across the room, but Draco's expression betrays nothing– not scorn, not anger, not disgust, nothing she expects from him. There is no sneer, no arrogant tilt of his chin. Just nothing.

The professor glances between the two of them. "If anyone else would care to switch partners instead–"

"It's fine, professor," Draco interjects, and arches a pale brow. "Unless Granger has a problem with it?" The question is cloaked in politeness, but Hermione knows a challenge when she hears it. He doesn't think she'll do it, probably thinks she's _afraid_ , and the idea of being scared of Malfoy after all that's happened makes her blood boil.

"Not at all," she says tightly. Professor Babbling looks faintly doubtful, but lets it slide and begins distributing the translation project to them all. It's a thick sheaf of old parchment, and looking over the first few inches brings the familiar feeling Runes projects always bring, the nagging, discouraging sense of not knowing enough coupled with the fierce bright determination of being faced with a challenge. As the rest of the class is filing out, she is already sliding into the text, mentally translating the parts she knows. It is not until she hears a pointed cough just behind her that she realises the classroom has emptied– and that Draco Malfoy is looking over her shoulder.

"We should probably set a time to meet," he says coolly, and Hermione's lips press into a thin line for a moment as she begins putting her books back into her bag.

"First five pages for Thursday evening?" she suggests. "We can meet in the library after dinner and compare translations to see how close ours are before we decide how to split up the rest."

"Don't trust me to translate it decently, hm," he says dryly. "Fine. Thursday at eight. See you then, Granger."

He strides off, and she dumps the last of her things into her bag with a quiet, irritated huff of breath. Honestly. Of course she doesn't trust him, with runes or anything else. He'd just better get it right, because she's not about to let him ride on her hard work, or bring down her own mark for not pulling his weight. Which he probably _won't_ , he seems the type to cut corners. _Slytherins_ , she thinks uncharitably, and then thinks of Theo and feels immediately guilty. (Though what on earth Theo can see in _Malfoy_ , of all people, remains a mystery).

She's still feeling put-out when she makes her way down to the Great Hall for lunch, and she spends the better part of it with her nose resolutely buried in her runes book, fretting about the project itself rather than her project partner. It doesn't work, not really, but at least it's productive, which is more than can be said for any other course of action.

As long as it gets done, she tells herself. That's the important thing.

* * *

"This is a disaster," Draco says, "she's such a sanctimonious little know-it-all, everything will have to be _her way_ , and if I argue then I'm just being the bad guy all over again. For the whole bloody term."

"You are the bad guy," Theo reminds him calmly, looking up at Draco from the flames of the common room fire, "which is exactly what you're worried about."

"Of _course_ it's what I'm worried about," Draco retorts snappishly. "The whole school already hates me, and now I'm working with little miss hero."

"Has it occurred to you," Theo inquires mildly, "that if you thought of her as a _person_ rather than as either a mudblood or some golden heroine, and treated her as such, that you might manage to get along with her? Last I checked, you actually appreciated intellect."

Draco looks at him doubtfully. "She _is_ both those things."

"And _you're_ a pureblood and a former Death Eater, but you don't care for the reductive assumptions that get made about you because of it. She's a teenage girl, Draco, for Merlin's sake. She wants to be liked for who she is, same as anyone else."

Draco sighs. "And how do you propose I have simple social interaction with a walking textbook, Theo?"

"Same way I did," he answers, "get her thinking outside the pages."

"Same way you did?" Draco echoes, raising his eyebrows. "Since when are you and Granger on speaking terms?"

"Since July. Did I neglect to mention that? How thoughtless of me." The airy tone Theo takes does nothing to fool Draco; he knows perfectly well that Theo has been omitting that particular piece of information quite deliberately. There is nothing thoughtless about it. Draco has to concede, though, that it was probably the smart decision at the time. Now, though...

"Spill," Draco orders succinctly.

Theo arches a brow and says nothing.

" _Theo._ "

"If I have information you want," he says, "make giving it up worth my while."

Their eyes lock, but trying to win a staring contest with Theo is like trying to win a staring contest with a fish: impossible.

"Theo, _please_ ," Draco amends, and there's a flicker of surprise in Theo's expression before he actually smiles.

"I do love hearing you say those words," he purrs, and Draco winces faintly.

"Don't use that voice when I can't drag you to bed."

Theo's smile becomes more of a smirk. "Feeling a bit sexually frustrated, are you?"

"I am _now_ ," Draco retorts, shooting Theo an irritated glance, "so if you'd stop–"

"–making things hard?"

"– _being difficult_ ," he stresses, "and avoiding my question, I'd appreciate it."

Theo regards him a moment longer, eyes still bright. "There's really not much to tell."

"Tell it anyway."

"I ran into her over the summer when I was out of the country. Southern France. She and I got to talking."

"There has to be more to it than that."

"Does there?"

"If there weren't, you wouldn't have felt a need to keep it from me."

"Telling you that I'm friendly with a girl you hate didn't exactly further my agenda of having my way with you."

Draco can't really argue that point. "So... you're on good terms with her."

"I am not going to play peacekeeper, before you even think about asking. My reserves of tact are pretty much exhausted from being around Blaise every day."

"Fine, fine. How is that going, by the way?"

"What, Blaise, or the training in general?"

"Either. Both."

"Blaise is irritating; training is exhausting. Training with Blaise is both."

Draco looks at him expectantly, but no more information seems to be forthcoming. "That's it?"

"That's all that I can tell you."

"I'm not going to like this job at all, am I," Draco says after a moment, and presses his lips into a thin line for a moment. "Do _you_ like it, at least?"

"I'm... not sure "like" is the right word, exactly," Theo hedges, "but it's... I think it's the right decision. Assuming I survive the training."

Draco isn't entirely sure if the last is a joke or not, and decides against asking. He might be better off not knowing. "Will you be able to get some time off for Hogsmeade weekend, at least?"

"Hopefully. I'm going to try, at any rate. I'll let you know."

"You better."

"Or what?" Theo's lips quirk. "Listen, I should get going, and you should probably get some sleep. I'll let you know about this weekend, though."

Draco almost protests, but thinks better of it when he finds himself stifling a yawn, only just now realising how late it has gotten. "All right. Take care, Theo. And say hello to Blaise for me."

"If you'll say hello to Trace for me."

"And get her all offended that you spoke with me and not with her?"

Theo cringes. "On second thought, never mind."

"That's what I thought."

"Goodnight, Draco."

"Night."

* * *

Draco walks in the library at eight o'clock on the dot to find Hermione already there, sitting at a table near the Runes section with a heap of books piled precariously beside her on the table. Her hair is pulled back from her face in a frizzy braid down her back to keep it from falling forward on to the pages of her work, but her face is haloed by stray tendrils when she looks up at him as he settles into the chair opposite hers. They exchange uncomfortable nods by way of greeting, and Draco wordlessly pulls his translation out of his bag and pushes it across the table, and she hands him hers like they're trading hostages.

Maybe they are.

Hermione can't decide, as she reads over his translations, whether she's relieved or annoyed– they're good. Very good, actually. She settles, after a few more paragraphs, on feeling vaguely discomfited, and sneaks a glance at him over the edge of the parchment. Draco has his bottom lip caught between his teeth as he reads, and his pale eyes don't leave the page.

"Well," she hedges at length, "this looks... quite good."

He glances up. "Try not to sound so surprised."

Hermione purses her lips a bit at that, but doesn't take the bait. "I think it makes sense to divide the text up, every other section, and then meet to look over each other's work at intervals to make sure the whole thing is consistent."

"That's as good a way as any." A pause. "Your translation looks good at well."

She blinks at him, startled by the unexpected acknowledgment. "Oh. Er... thank you."

Draco nods slightly. "So. Next meeting after Hogsmeade weekend?"

"All right. Monday night?"

"Quidditch practice. Tuesday?"

"Tuesday's fine."

All in all, Hermione decides, it didn't go too badly at all.

* * *

The Three Broomsticks is swarming with students, the first Hogsmeade weekend, and rather than fight for a table Hermione lays claim to one of the seats at the bar to wait for Ron to come meet her. She's early, and he'll be late– he always is– so she may as well sit while she waits. Hermione lets the noise of the pub wash over her as she half-watches the other students, but her eyes are mostly on the door. That's the only reason Theo doesn't slip in unnoticed, quite and unobtrusive. Her gaze follows him as he weaves through the clusters of people, and she's not entirely sure how someone as tall as he is manages to to be so easy to overlook. He's heading toward the bar, though, and when he's close enough she calls out his name on impulse. He doesn't start, but he turns just a little too quickly, enough that she knows he wasn't expecting to be noticed, or at least not by her. He comes to stand beside her, though, and gives her the slight, calm nod that she's coming to realise is just how he greets people, his equivalent of a smile or a wave.

"Hermione," he says, leaning against the bar next to her, "how are you? School still treating you well?"

"It is. I really _would_ have hated to miss my last year altogether, the professors let us go into so much more depth in preparation for NEWTS. How have you been?"

"Busy," he replies noncommittally, leaning over a bit to catch Madam Rosmerta's eye. "And what is a woman like yourself doing here alone?" It would sound either condescending or flirtatious or both from almost any other man, but Theo's tone is more of ironic amusement than anything else. Hermione's lips twitch.

"Waiting on Ron. I'm early."

"Ah." Madam Rosmerta makes her way over to their end of the bar, then, and Theo asks for a drink for himself before tilting his head at Hermione. "Have you got time to have something while you wait?"

"I..."

"Oh, go on, dear," Madam Rosmerta interjects, eyes dancing as she glances between them. "What would you like, Hermione?"

"Oh. Um. Just... just a Butterbeer, please," she says, answering automatically more than anything. Rosmerta turns to get their drinks, and Hermione shoots a faintly panicky glance at Theo.

"Theo!" she hisses, "She thinks we're _dating_."

Theo just shrugs, and Hermione's cheeks flush as Rosmerta sets their drinks in front of them with another amused smile before she's off to attend to other customers. "Doesn't it bother you?"

"Hermione," Theo drawls, "do you honestly think this is the first time I've been mistaken for straight?"

"Oh." Her blush deepens slightly. "So you're..."

Theo quirks an eyebrow, looking at her over the rim of his wineglass. "Surely there have been plenty of rumours about Draco and me since term began."

"I don't listen to gossip," Hermione says, but in the same breath concedes, "but I may have heard some things."

"They're probably at least partly true. He and I... have history."

"Only history?"

He actually smiles. "And some current events, too. As it were. That would be who _I'm_ here to see."

Hermione's brow creases slightly. "You and he seem like an... odd match."

"Your polite way of asking me what the hell I see in him, I presume?" Theo needles, but he doesn't seem offended. "What you see is really _not_ what you get, with Draco. Which reminds me, I heard you two are working together on an Ancient Runes project?"

"He mentioned?"

"He mentioned. How has that been going?"

"Better than I expected, actually," she admits after a moment. "He's been... civil. And he's competent at Runes."

"He is, I've worked with him before," Theo agrees. "What's the assignment?"

"It's a long translation, to help prepare us for the NEWT itself. All the pairs have different ones; ours actually isn't a spell at all, it's a story."

"Really? Well, I suppose Babbling figures you've got the basics, so she's expanding your vocabulary now. I would think that would be much trickier, though."

Hermione blinks and takes a sip of her Butterbeer. "Why would it be? I mean, yes, there are more unfamiliar runes when it's not potion ingredients or what have you, but the principle's the same."

"Oh, I disagree," Theo answers immediately. "A spell or a potion is all about technical precision; it's very cut and dry. You've either identified a rune's meaning correctly or incorrectly, in that case. But a story has shades of meaning, some more right than others." He is leaning closer as he talks, an intensity that speaks of a passion in his voice. "Translation is an _art_ , not a science; it's not just about looking up the meaning of a rune. There's the subtext, the subtleties to convey, the undercurrents of the text that make a story a _story_."

Hermione is quiet for a moment, then lets out a dejected sigh. "Great. I'm going to worry about this like you wouldn't believe, now."

Theo shakes his head. "First, I absolutely would believe it, and second, don't. You're perfectly capable, and Draco has an eye for shades of meaning if you can bring yourself to take his suggestions."

Hermione's lips twitch, but she still doesn't look very convinced. "How bad was the exam, when you took it?"

"Hermione." Theo lays a hand over hers on top of the bar. "You'll be _fine_. I suspect you could take it today with no preparation and still get a very respectable mark. Actually, it was an interesting test."

"Interesting?" she cocks her head, regarding him curiously. "Interesting how?"

"Well, there was one particular question..."

* * *

Ron is running late as he hurries down the bustling streets of Hogsmeade to meet Hermione, still inwardly debating what they should do with the afternoon– well, he knows what he'd _like_ to do, but it's not really all that practical in public, and he's pretty sure Hermione would object, so really it's best to just leave that line of thought alone. Three Broomsticks, and maybe Honeydukes if she hasn't already been, today. He can get her something there, maybe– girls are supposed to like being given candy. Well, Lavender hadn't– said it would ruin her figure– but Hermione is no Lavender, which is kind of the whole point.

Ron lets out a breath and shakes his head slightly to himself, pausing an anxious moment at the door to the pub. Then he thinks, _this is Hermione_ , and it's both reassuring and completely unhelpful, but he pushes open the door and steps inside, looking around for the familiar frizz of brown hair.

He finds it, after a few moments, and his eyes narrow. She's sitting at the bar, deep in conversation with a tall, leggy boy about their age– he looks familiar, but Ron can't come up with his name, and frankly doesn't care. What he cares about is how close he and Hermione have leaned in to talk to one another, how he's only seen her look that engrossed in something with her nose in a particularly long, dusty book, and– is he _touching_ her hand?

Ron's blood boils, and he pushes heedlessly through the crowded pub, undeterred by protests and amiable calls of recognition alike.

"What the _hell_ do you think you're doing?!"

Hermione jumps. "Ron!"

The stranger, however, barely reacts, save to turn and regard him coolly, gaze dark and unimpressed. _Pureblood_ , Ron thinks immediately, knows it by the icy assurance, the dismissal of his non-reaction, like Ron isn't worth the trouble of being concerned with. Ron is so sick of having something to prove.

"Oi, Hermione's taken, you understand?" he snaps, drawing himself up to his full height, and the other boy arches a brow.

"Happily for you, so am I. I wasn't aware that disqualified me from having a conversation." His tone has gone haughty, and Hermione frowns to herself. Ron only looks angrier, now, and takes a step closer, advancing on Theo's personal space.

"And why should I believe you?" Ron growls, and Hermione _knows_ that tone, knows it means that Ron is inches away from doing something idiotic like trying to start a fistfight.

"Because he's dating Malfoy!" she interjects loudly, and Theo winces.

"Thank you, Hermione," he mutters in the sudden hush, "why don't you say that a little louder? Someone in the back corner might not have _heard_ you." He pushes away from the bar, posture tense, and stalks quickly out of the pub before Hermione can voice any kind of apology. She is left staring helplessly after him, as Ron watches his retreat with dawning recognition. The boy from the platform.

"What's his name?"

"Theo," she answers automatically, worrying her bottom lip. "Theo Nott."

The pronouncement doesn't make Ron look any less angry, really. "Nott," he says flatly. "As in Octavius Nott, the _Death Eater?_ "

"Um, well. Presumably."

" _Presumably?_ "

"Believe it or not, Ronald, the war is really the _last_ thing I want to talk about, with him or anyone else!"

Ron just scowls. "You're–"

"If you say "fraternising with the enemy," I swear, I will hex you six ways to Sunday," Hermione interrupts sharply, and Ron's jaw snaps shut. It had been _exactly_ what he was going to say– it's Viktor Bloody Krum all over again, some Dark Arts-loving dark-haired bloke getting between him and her.

"Since when do you hang around with bloody Slytherins, anyway?"

"Since summer," she replies, and for a moment Ron just stares before anger overtakes surprise once more.

"And you didn't _tell_ me?!"

"Oh, because you've taken it _so well_ ," Hermione retorts acidly. "I can make my own decisions, Ron! Just because we're together doesn't mean you get to control my life!"

"I'm looking out for you!"

"I don't need protecting! Theo's not my _enemy_."

Behind the bar, Madam Rosmerta clears her throat delicately. "My dears, you might want to have this fight somewhere a bit more private," she remarks, and Hermione glances around at her gawking classmates and narrows her eyes.

"No need," she says, "I've just remembered, I have work to be doing. I'd better get back to the castle."

"Hermione–"

She doesn't let Ron finish protesting; still fuming, she darts around him and out of the pub, hurrying up the path back toward the castle. She makes it just inside the front doors before the tears start to fall, hot and resentful, leaving glistening tracks down her reddened cheeks.

In her dorm Hermione picks up her Runes book, and cannot focus at all; she can only sit, seething and hurt, with the book in her lap as she stares unseeingly at the page, vision still swimming with tears.

* * *

"You don't want to go in there," Theo says, catching Draco by the arm as he approaches the Three Broomsticks and instead pulling him off down a side street, away from the bustle of the students. Draco slants a glance at him.

"Hello to you, too," he says, but follows Theo's lead back around to the other side of a quiet building, obscured from easy view. "I know I'm irresistible, but you really couldn't even pretend to be interested in the social niceties before dragging me off somewhere to get my clothes off?"

"They know," Theo says flatly, leaning against the wall, and Draco stops short in front of him.

"Know...?"

"About us."

Draco is silent for a painfully long moment, and his expression has frozen over, cold and immobile. "I think," he says, in that very careful tone that he uses when he's trying to keep his emotions from boiling over, "that you have some explaining to do, Theodore."

"First and foremost, _I_ didn't say anything," he says, and sighs. "I was talking to Hermione in the pub while I was waiting for you and she was waiting for Weasley– don't give me that look, just listen. The Runes project came up, and she and I got into a conversation, and then Weasley barges in accusing me of making a play for her. So she and he got into a fight, and he of course didn't believe it was innocent, and she let it slip in a fit of temper, basically." A pause. "Please don't take it out on her. She was upset, she wasn't thinking."

Draco's lips press into a thin, bloodless line. "Leaving aside how she _knew_ ," he says, "I for one would _love_ to know what was giving the Weasel the idea that you were after her to begin with."

Theo gives him a faintly incredulous look. "You can't seriously be implying you think I'm lusting after Hermione."

"You've been awfully evasive about your acquaintance with her," Draco says levelly. "You didn't even tell me about it for _months_."

"Draco." Theo straightens and catches hold of his shoulders, meeting his gaze unflinchingly. "I'm _gay_ , remember? I don't chase after skirts."

"You chase after brains," Draco says, and Theo rolls his eyes.

"Then I'm getting less attracted to you the more you pursue this ridiculous line of thought."

Draco lets out a quiet breath, and his shoulders slump slightly. "Sorry. I just–"

"I know." Theo pulls him in close and turns his head to murmur against his ear, "You want to get out of here for a few hours?"

"Mm, did you have something in mind?"

"Well," Theo answers, voice dropping lower still, "how does coming back to mine sound? Seeing as you evidently need reminding of who I _am_ attracted to..."

Draco's lips curve into a faint smirk. "Throw in an early dinner before I apparate back here, and you're on."

"Done," Theo agrees, and the two disappear.

* * *

Draco is worrying. Theo can _feel_ it– though it's not really that hard to guess, truth be told, because Draco's back shouldn't be knotted up with tension like this after that much sex. Theo is still for a moment, gaze fixed on the curve of his lover's spine as Draco lies beside him, still, pretending to doze. When the weight of his regard doesn't draw Draco's attention– and it usually does, Draco always seems to know when he is being looked at– Theo sits up, sliding out from under the tangled sheets.

"Hey." His voice is soft, and so is the touch of his hand when it settles on Draco's shoulder. "Talk to me."

"About what?" Draco drawls, and Theo frowns at him.

"Draco. Come on."

After a moment, Draco turns over on to his other side and props himself up on his elbow, looking up at Theo from under the fall of bed-mussed blond hair. "Do you have any idea what this means?" His voice is pitched low, but sharp-edged with something between bitterness and fear. "I'm already a bloody outcast because of the war, and now... now _this._ " He huffs out an unhappy breath. "Father is going to kill me."

"I know the feeling," Theo mutters, looking away, and Draco flinches slightly at the unintentional misstep.

"Not like that," he amends, a little softer, "but... but it'll be bad."

"I know it will." When Theo meets his eyes again, his expression speaks of nothing but quiet understanding; Draco doesn't know how the hell he does it, how he can just lock away his own past like that to focus on Draco instead, but he appreciates it all the same. "What about your mother?"

"My mother..." Draco sighs. "I don't know. She's been planning my wedding since I was _born_. Probably longer. Not that she doesn't like you, I think she does, but... you're not exactly what she had in mind."

Theo's lips quirk. "You don't say. No offense, but I wasn't planning on marrying you anytime in the immediate future regardless."

Draco snorts. "What, afraid to be tied down?"

"I think we've established that I rather like being tied down by you..."

"Shut up, Nott."

Theo smiles slightly, then sobers once more. "In all seriousness," he says, "it _will_ work out. It won't be fun, but. You handled a war, you can handle being outed."

Draco wrinkles his nose. "I hate that word."

"You're not _straight_ , Draco, or you wouldn't be naked in my bed right now."

"I'm not gay either."

"I know."

"Then stop acting like–"

"Look, just because you like both doesn't mean... it doesn't make it easier, you know that. It doesn't, unless you'd rather just lie to yourself and leave me for a woman, and even then I'm not sure that qualifies as _easier_. Just a different set of problems."

Draco glares at him, but it's halfhearted. "Your habit of being right all the time is really fucking annoying. You know that, don't you?"

"You may have mentioned it a time or twenty before, yes." Theo leans over and silences whatever retort Draco may have been forming with a brief kiss. "If you're going to get back on time, we should get something to eat and get back."

Draco makes an unenthusiastic noise in his throat, and Theo arches a brow. "You were the one who wanted dinner," he reminds him, no longer sounding particularly sympathetic at all. "Up."

"I already did earlier, don't tell me you're forgotten..."

"Shut up, Malfoy."

* * *

"You're late," Hermione says accusingly as Draco stalks into the library, clearly in none too pleasant a mood. Around them, the soft rustle of pages stops, and she doesn't have to look away from Draco to know that he's being watched.

"Deal with it," he answers irritably. "We're working somewhere else, come on."

Hermione scowls. "Where?"

" _Somewhere else_ ," he says tightly, jaw clenched, and after a moment Hermione gathers her books into her arms and follows him out.

They wind up shut in an empty classroom, and Draco folds himself into one of the chairs with the air of a captured animal and hands Hermione his next section of the translation. She almost speaks, but cuts herself off and instead just hands him her own and begins reading over his work. It's not as good as the last by a long shot; she finds herself marking mistake after careless mistake with increasing irritation, because she _knows_ he's better at Runes than this.

When Hermione looks up, he still has not turned past the first page of her work, and she huffs out a frustrated breath. "Malfoy, would you at least _try_ to do a respectable job?!" she snaps. "Maybe you don't care about your marks, but I for one–"

"I've been busy," Draco says tightly, without looking at her.

" _Busy_. Right, with–"

The motion is too fast for Hermione to react; she is seized by the shoulders, the bones of Draco's fingers digging in hard even through her robe. "Listen, _Granger_ ," Draco snaps back, "if you were so bloody concerned about my work being up to par, maybe you should have thought before you opened your stupid mudblood mouth this weekend!" Then, as quickly as he had grabbed her, he shoves her back. For long moments Hermione can't seem to speak, hurt and anger warring with something else she doesn't want to name.

"You haven't been at meals all week," she finally says slowly, and the pieces are coming together now. The stares in the library, the distracted work.

"Well spotted," Draco retorts acidly, "aren't you supposed to be the smart one?"

Hermione swallows. "Mal– Draco, I–"

"Don't. Just don't, I don't want your bloody _pity_. Save it for the house elves."

"Idiot," she says, and this time it is her who grabs him, catching hold of his arm, "I _am_ sorry, I– I had no right."

"No. You didn't."

"It's not like I can undo it! I would if I could, it was– Theo's furious with me."

Draco shakes his head. "Theo might be angry on principle, but he also doesn't care what other people think."

Hermione frowns. "So why do you? It's not their business, anyway."

Draco slants a glance at her, expression difficult to fully read. "Theo's parents are both dead."

"I don't..."

"There's no one to _expect_ anything of Theo," he elaborates impatiently. "Theo can fuck as many men as he wants, as scandalously as he can possibly think of, and there will _never_ be consequences."

Hermione is quiet for a moment. "Your parents don't own you," she finally says.

"That doesn't mean I want to let them down."

She looks away. "What does Theo think?"

"Theo seems perfectly sure it'll all work out, but he's mum on the subject of how to make that happen."

"Figures."

"Rather."

There is a silence.

"So," Hermione finally ventures hesitantly, "Runes?"

Draco sighs. "Tell you what, I'll redo mine. Meet again tomorrow?"

"Let's do the day after."

He simply nods by way of answer and picks up his work. "Same place, maybe?"

"Sure." Hermione watches as he turns to go; he has just laid a hand on the doorknob when she calls after him, "Draco." He half turns, looking back at her over his shoulder, and she says, voice surer than the feels, "I know we don't get along, but... I don't judge on who you sleep with."

His lips give the barest quirk. "That _was_ getting along, Granger," he tells her, and walks out the door.

* * *

>   
> _Hermione–_
> 
>  _I'm sorry about Hogsmeade, I really didn't mean to lose my temper. ~~It's just that~~ Write me back, ok? I'll see you... whenever I see you, I guess._
> 
>  _-Ron_

The note– short, simple, to the point, Ron has never had a way with words– has been sitting in Hermione's pocket all day, nagging at her thoughts and making it hard to focus on much else. She manages, because it's what she does, and when her thoughts stray back in her free moments she gets no closer to an answer, unless hearing _the thing about you and Ronald is that you both always need Harry between you to make things work_ repeated over and over in her mind in Luna's airy voice counts. She doesn't want it to.

She just needs someone _sane_ to talk to, is what it boils down to, but instead she has to meet Draco, who Hermione's not convinced qualifies as either sane or someone to talk to, despite what had happened the last time they had spoken. Because the pointy bastard was right, they _had_ gotten along, but she's not sure what that can possibly mean or what she wants to do with it. (She had half-considered writing to Theo– or, actually, decided to and then gone back on it after crumpling up two separate drafts filled with cross-outs that she hadn't been able to finish).

Draco is sitting with his feet up on one of the desks when Hermione arrives, and she bites back an instinctive scold for treating the furniture that way and bounces her gaze uncertainly between him and the floor.

"Hi," she finally offers by way of greeting, and Draco looks up from his rune dictionary.

"Evening." He straightens slightly. "You really want to translate this as 'loyalty'?"

Getting right to business, then. That works for Hermione; she pulls up a chair next to his so she can read the passage in question over Draco's shoulder. "What's wrong with it?"

Draco drums his fingertips on his thigh for a moment. "I would say 'devotion,' is all."

She tilts her head slightly. "I don't think it makes much difference."

He arches a pale brow. "Is that so? Because my father was _loyal_ to the Dark Lord, but he's _devoted_ to his family."

Hermione frowns at the example, but she knows what he's getting at. "You're saying you think the emotional involvement implied by 'devotion' is a better fit for the text."

"Exactly."

"I'll buy that for that instance," she concedes, "but what about the re-occurrence down here? Because the context there..."

"Yeah, that's more ambiguous. Leave that one alone, I think." He hands the parchment over. "That was the only thing I questioned. Let's see the new stuff. My corrected draft and a little working ahead are in my bag, if you're so inclined."

"Thanks."

Silence falls again as the two resume the task of checking over one another's work– it's almost peaceful, really, the bits of story almost like she is reading some early edition of a very old book. It's probably the most relaxed she's been since the fight with Ron.

Right. The fight with Ron.

"Merlin, Granger," Draco drawls, "could you _be_ any less relaxed?"

Hermione looks up to find him watching her, eyes cool and calm, and shrugs slightly. "It's nothing."

"If you say so."

"I do."

There is another silence, much less comfortable than the prior one.

"Hypothetically," Draco says, "how do you feel about breaking a few rules?"

She slants a wary glance at him. "It depends. Hypothetically, why do you ask?"

"Theo will be in town Saturday."

"Which isn't a Hogsmeade weekend."

"Hence the question of rule-breaking."

She smiles faintly. "If that was an invitation, I'd have to say thank you, but I wouldn't want to be a third wheel."

 _Somehow I doubt you would be_ , Draco thinks, but lets the matter drop.

* * *

"You're distracted," Blaise says, as Theo only narrowly dodges a hex thrown in their practice duel. "I don't know what you're obsessing over, but it's going to get you cursed."

Theo frowns, ducking again before firing a curse in return. "It's just–"

"Oh, no," Blaise interrupts, "that wasn't an invitation. I do fucking or fighting, not personal conversations."

"Conversations _about_ sex?"

Blaise's lips quirk. "You have my attention."

"Is it really all that different with a woman?"

At that, Blaise's expression becomes more of a smirk. "Well, _well_ ," he drawls, "why do you ask?"

"Intellectual curiosity."

"Liar. Who's the girl?"

"None of your damn business."

"Hm." Blaise glances at him searchingly, but Theo's expression betrays nothing. After a moment, Blaise answers, "if you want her, it shouldn't matter that she's a woman."

Theo considers this for a moment. "Draco said something like that once. But I've just... never been attracted to one."

"Oh, like hell," Blaise retorts. "There's a _reason_ everyone thought you were dating Tracey, you know, and it wasn't just that you two are close. There was tension. In fact, she may kill you if you sleep with a girl that isn't her."

Theo shakes his head. "It's a totally hypothetical scenario at this point. I'm not sure I'd–"

"Nott," Blaise interjects, "what kind of Slytherin are you? If you want something, _take_ it."

"I was nearly a Ravenclaw."

"In that case, don't be an idiot."

Theo watches him for a moment, then suddenly his wand arm darts out once more, and Blaise only barely dodges in time. "I'm not known for idiocy, Zabini."

They circle again, each looking for an opening. "About this sort of thing, you are." A brief, sharp smile. "Desire is the family business, Nott. Trust me; I know what I'm talking about."

* * *

"It's... been rough," Draco hedges, without looking over at Theo. It's early evening, and the two are walking along one of the back paths of Hogsmeade on the outskirts of the small village, away from anyone else who might be out. A fine, cold rain is soaking into their cloaks– it's been a cold autumn so far, and if the temperature were much lower it would probably be snowing. Theo's curls are sticking to his forehead.

"You holding up all right?"

Draco shrugs. "I suppose."

"Draco."

He lets out a breath. "I can handle myself, Theo."

"I know you can." Theo looks down. "Sorry. I was just... well. Never mind."

Draco is quiet for a moment. "I'll be okay," he says eventually, "it's only one year."

"A year can be a long time. Have you heard from your parents?"

A muscle in Draco's jaw twitches. "Theo."

"What, am I supposed to pretend it's not a problem?"

Draco glances over at him, narrow-eyed. "Of course I've heard from them. But I'm not dropping you, so it doesn't matter what they think."

Theo actually smiles softly, half to himself, and Draco gives him an uncertain glance. "What? What is it?"

"You've grown up," Theo answers simply. "It's a good look on you."

Draco doesn't quite know what to say to that, but he's not about to protest. Eventually, he murmurs only, "I'm not sure I like it very much."

"I'm not convinced that you're supposed to." He pauses. "There was something I wanted to suggest to you, but I don't think you're going to like it much."

"Oh, well then, by all means," Draco drawls sarcastically, but he is watching Theo even so.

"If I know your family at all, I would presume it's fairly safe to say that your father's primary objection is the family name, and that your mother's is the question of children. Am I right?"

Draco grimaces slightly. "Father's concerned about keeping the line going as well," he says, "but yes. I don't know how _you_ propose to solve either of those problems, though."

"Obviously, I _personally_ can't," Theo demurs, "but the right woman could."

"Look, I already said I'm not going to leave you, so you can just stop worrying," Draco says crossly, and Theo shakes his head.

"I wasn't suggesting anything of the kind."

"I'm not going to screw around on you, either. Merlin, Theo, you can stop testing me _anytime now_ , because I've made up my mind."

"I think you're looking at this a bit too traditionally," Theo says after a moment, brushing wet hair back from his eyes. "I'm not testing you, I'm... making an unconventional suggestion."

There is a pregnant pause. "You can't possibly be suggesting what I think you are."

"That would depend on what you think."

"A threesome with a woman would never work," Draco says flatly. "You're _gay_ , remember?"

"True," Theo concedes, "but a relationship is more than just sex. And, well, these things aren't _completely_ set in stone."

Draco shuts his eyes for a moment and draws a slow, deep breath. "First, where do you propose to find a woman with the right family who would be okay with this who we could both agree on, and second, since when are you _flexible_ about that kind of thing?"

"I think you're overstating the question of blood, first of all," Theo says, "since in point of fact almost all the pureblood girls have pretty tarnished family names at the moment, and Tracey would never date you. Secondly... let's just say some things you said recently got me thinking."

"You're going to have to do better than that."

Theo shrugs and drops his gaze, looking suddenly uncomfortable. "I just... I think every now and then I actually am attracted to a woman. I just don't... it's not how I think of myself."

Draco's lips press into a thin line. "This is about Granger."

"It's not _just_ about her. But... that's what got me thinking about it to begin with, yes."

"Great. So you're telling me that _I_ got you wanting to shag a woman."

"Potentially open to the possibility, rather. But you didn't do anything other than get me to start considering what was already there."

"I should get back to Slytherin," Draco says tightly, and Theo flinches.

"Draco..."

"This conversation is _over_ , Nott," he snaps. "I'll be in touch. Goodnight."

* * *

 _This is fucking ridiculous_ , Draco thinks to himself with a scowl. He's taking notes in Arithmancy without really listening to what Professor Vector is saying, just transferring the words to his parchment without bothering to let his brain intervene. It's an art, really, one that he had perfected around fifth year– when, not at all coincidentally, he had spent a lot more of his time being distracted than in the past. Theo had always rather disapproved.

Theo. Draco's quill scratches at the parchment a bit more aggressively than strictly necessary. It's not that he doesn't have a point– he does, he practically _always_ does, it's one of the most infuriating things about him– but that doesn't mean Draco has to _like_ it.

He slants a cautious glance at Hermione, who is sitting in the centre of the classroom, a couple rows in front of him. She's listening to Professor Vector with predictable rapt attention, quill darting across her parchment at an almost frantic pace, brown eyes intent. Draco can only see her profile, half-hidden by the frizz of her hair– she scrunches up her nose when she concentrates, just a little bit.

Draco drops his gaze back to his parchment. He shouldn't be upset– Theo has given him the perfect solution. Muggle-born or not, Hermione has the best name of any woman in Wizarding society right now, and a little scandal can actually be a very useful thing if it's done right. She's perfect on parchment, as it were, and it's not as if... it's not as if she isn't attractive. She is, and he's faintly chagrined that Theo knew, or at least guessed, that he thinks so. Because really, if _Draco_ had thought of this, the whole thing would be perfect, but he hadn't. Theo had.

Draco is no closer to an answer by the end of class than he has been for the past two weeks since Theo had brought the whole bizarre notion up. Maybe the fact that he's been obsessing about it ever since says something– _yeah, that you're bloody insane_ – but that's not particularly helpful. Not really.

He watches Hermione as she gathers up her books, shoving them quickly into her stuffed-to-bursting bag. The seams of it strain, almost ready to burst, and he doesn't think about it, not really, just curls his fingers around his wand and whispers _diffindo_ under his breath. The threads give with a sudden tearing sound as her textbooks tumble to the floor, and Hermione bites off the startled beginning of a curse.

"Shouldn't stuff your bag so full," Draco says conversationally, dropping gracefully to kneel beside her and begin gathering up books. Hermione shoots him a brief, wry smile and tucks her hair behind her ear.

"It's an old bag," she answers, "kind of on its last legs anyway, I guess."

"Looks like." They fall silent for a moment until Hermione gets to her feet, arms full.

"Would you put the rest of those on top?"

"Oh, don't even," Draco answers, standing up as well. "Where are you heading, the tower? I don't have anywhere to be until Transfiguration."

"Oh. Well." She blinks at him, looking faintly bewildered. "I... yes, the tower, if it's not a bother..."

"Wouldn't have offered if it were," he says firmly, and she nods slightly and lets him fall into step with her. The walk is silent but not uncomfortable, at least not until Hermione comes to a hesitant pause in front of the Fat Lady, not quite sure whether or not she should say the password in his hearing.

"Here." Draco murmurs a spell to repair her bag before putting the books he's holding into it– it won't hold for long, but long enough for her to get them back to her dorm. She smiles at him and shrugs the bag into a more comfortable position on her shoulder. "Thanks, Draco."

"Welcome," he drawls, and turns to find Brown and Patil standing right behind them, staring unabashedly. He glares at them before striding quickly away from Gryffindor, but there's no doubt in his mind that this will be all over Hogwarts by tomorrow.

And if it's all over school, it won't be long before Theo hears, either.

* * *

"For the last time," Hermione says, voice scaling up a bit in annoyance, "there is _nothing_ going on with me and Malfoy!"

"Riiiiiight," Parvati answers doubtfully, looking up from painting her toenails a violently bright shade of pink to glance at Hermione and Lavender. "Because blokes totally carry books for girls they have nothing going on with. Happens _all_ the time."

"Same with walking them back to their common rooms," Lavender says, eyes wide in an entirely unconvincing show of innocence as she nods at Hermione. "Totally normal. Absolutely. Slytherins do that kind of thing practically every day. You know, because they're all such nice guys that way."

Hermione huffs out an annoyed breath and drops her books unceremoniously on her bed. "My bag split, that's _all_."

"So? It's not like he _had_ to help you. He's a total prick, he's not the kind of bloke that does things like that if he's not getting something out of it."

"Like me killing you?" Hermione suggests acidly. "And he's... not that bad. Not always. But he's my Runes partner, that's it."

"Is that the new code?" Parvati inquires. "Runes partners, that's what we're calling it now?"

"I don't take Runes," Lavender says thoughtfully, sitting down on the edge of Parvati's bed. "Can I have Charms partners instead?"

"It's not code!"

"Divination partners?" Parvati suggests, ignoring Hermione's outburst.

"You're my Divination partner," Lavender reminds her.

"Oh baby," Parvati coos, "look into my crystal ball."

They collapse into giggles, which just makes Hermione scowl at them more darkly. "Can you two please just stop it? I need to get my homework done."

"Ancient Runes?" Parvati asks brightly, eyes sparkling. "Oh, Draco, do you think you could help me? It's just that I can't seem to remember the rune for _do me now_."

"I have a rune that needs translating," Lavender adds, batting her eyelashes, "under my skirt."

"I'll translate your runes..."

"...all night long!"

Hermione makes an inarticulate noise of frustration in her throat and stomps out of the dorm, scattering younger years with the sheer power of her glare as she claims a chair by the fireplace. For a while, there is relative peace– the chatter in the common room is quiet enough that it doesn't disturb her focus, and Lavender and Parvati evidently have at least enough sense not to follow her when she doesn't want to be followed.

The peace doesn't last long, though.

"Oi, Hermione!" Seamus greets her brightly, flopping into the chair nearest to her. "What's this I hear about you making time with Slytherins, eh?"

She purses her lips. "Lies, whatever you heard," she says coolly, and he tilts his head at her.

"Really? I saw that big row you and Ron had over that Nott bloke, and now I heard that you and Malfoy are..." he makes a vague but decidedly inappropriate-looking hand gesture.

"Ron and I fought because Ron was being an idiot," she retorts, "and I'm not dating Theo _or_ Draco."

Seamus grins crookedly. "They're Theo and Draco now, are they. You know, I thought those two were together."

"They are."

"So then... ohhh. Hermione, you fox! _Both_ of them? Always knew you had it in you!"

"No!" She can feel herself blushing fiercely, she just _knows_ that her cheeks must be bright red at the mental image Seamus seems to have burned into her brain. "No, no, no no no we're not, I'm not doing anything with either of them!"

"Methinks the lady doth protest too much," Seamus says gleefully, waggling his eyebrows at her.

Hermione ends up working in the library that evening until Madam Pince kicks her out.

* * *

>   
> _Fine. Maybe your idea isn't awful.  
>  -DM_   
> 

Theo smiles to himself and incinerates the note with a brief flick of his wand. Draco never did know how to admit defeat gracefully– not that it's a defeat at all, really, if they play their cards right.

October's Hogsmeade weekend is sharply cold, the wind stinging at Theo's cheeks when he apparates to the village to meet Draco.

"Speaking to me again, are you?"

"Don't push your luck," Draco answers, quirking a brow. "I've done your dirty work, the rest of this is on you."

"I had heard rumours," Theo says calmly. "You've certainly sparked enough speculation."

"I'm good at being talked about."

Theo's lips twitch up at the corners. "Don't I know it." He offers his hand. "Care to put your talents to use, then?"

There is a moment's pause, but then Draco accepts the offer and curls his fingers around Theo's as they walk down the path together. Despite the murmurs that still follow them, there's something strangely comfortable about spending time with Theo without having to put up a front and keep the distance of an acquaintance (because they were never _friends_ , exactly). Theo, too, seems unusually at ease, arguing amiably about politics as they work their way through Honeydukes together.

"I'm just not sure Zeller has the experience to be appointed to the Wizengamot, I'd like to see him spend a few more years– if you get a blood lollipop, I refuse to make out with you."

Theo grins and drops the sweet back into its bin. "Acquired taste."

"Zeller or the lollipops?"

"Well, I meant the latter."

"I don't intend to acquire either, as it happens."

"You might not get a choice about Zeller, he's got a great deal of support. Are sugar quills acceptable, your highness?"

"More than. Not that I can't think of better things for you to be sucking, but..."

Theo elbows him in the ribs, though he looks more amused than anything else. "You'll have to ask far more nicely than that," he says as he pays for his sweets, then steps aside to let Draco do likewise.

"So, Three Broomsticks?"

Theo shakes his head. "She'll be at the book shop."

It's not exactly a difficult prediction to make, but it's an accurate one; both easily spot the frizz of Hermione's hair near the Arithmancy section, and Theo pulls Draco with him, unnoticed, another row down. She'd work her way there eventually, and in the meantime he feigns interest in an Astronomy text until he places the sound of her footsteps coming toward their row.

"Just work with me," Theo mutters under his breath, and leans in to press his lips to Draco's. To his credit, Draco tenses only momentarily into the uncharacteristically public display before he lets himself relax enough to kiss back. It's not a particularly scandalous kiss save for the fact that it's _them_ , only sons of two of the oldest bloodlines in Britain, but all the same Hermione gives a soft little gasp when she stumbles upon it, and they break apart.

Theo, in spite of himself, flushes very faintly– but so does she.

"S-sorry," she stammers, flustered. "I didn't meant to, um, interrupt."

Theo shakes his head. "Probably not the best place for it anyway."

"Well. No, not exactly."

Draco rolls his eyes. "You'll have to forgive him," he drawls, "I'm too irresistible, is all. It's a curse, really, that I have to suffer."

"Shut up," Theo and Hermione say in the same instant. She looks faintly horrified with herself when she realises she's just spoken to him like she might her best mates, but Theo just chuckles.

"I knew there was a reason I liked you so much," he remarks. "Listen, if you're not going to have a jealous boyfriend problem, care to get a drink with us? I haven't spoken to you in a while."

"There's... not exactly a boyfriend at the moment, I don't think," she hedges, and glances between them. "Are you sure you don't mind...?"

Draco shakes his head. "Just don't talk to me about Runes, I get enough of that at school."

"Done," she agrees, and smiles at them both.

* * *

"It's not that he and I... broke up, exactly," Hermione says carefully, pausing to take a sip of her butterbeer. "It's just that I'm not sure I can be with someone who can't let me have my own friends. Make my own decisions. I lived through a war, and now I can't decide for myself who to _talk_ to? It's just..."

"Suffocating," Draco supplies, and she nods in agreement.

"Yes. And anyway, it's not like... it doesn't matter to me that you're Slytherins."

Draco frowns slightly. "To be fair– much as I hate doing that– he's got every reason to hate me."

"People change," Theo interjects softly. "I wouldn't have come back if everything had stayed the same."

"Also we might have killed each other by now, working together," Hermione points out. Draco smiles slightly.

"Occasionally it's still tempting, Miss Know-it-all."

Hermione rolls her eyes at him.

"In all seriousness," Theo says, gaze suddenly intent on Hermione, "if he can't respect you as an equal, he doesn't deserve the privilege of dating you. You've far too much to offer to waste your time like that."

Theo, Draco reflects as he watches Hermione blush and murmur a thank you, clearly missed his calling as a seducer. He could probably put Blaise to shame.

"Theo," Draco says after a suitable pause, watching his and Hermione's gazes suddenly break, "would you be so good as to get me another drink?"

"Lover," Theo reminds him succinctly, "not servant." Still, he gets up and heads to the bar, and Draco watches Hermione watch him go.

"He wants you, you know."

Hermione's attention snaps back to Draco. "What? But– but he's with you. And he's gay."

"Doesn't stop him looking," Draco answers, "and... he's _mostly_ gay. More so than I am, but... not entirely. Point is, Weasley probably wasn't just imagining things– for once."

Hermione swallows, and her cheeks have gone tellingly pink. "I don't know why you're telling me this."

Draco's lips curve into a slow smile, just wicked enough to not be entirely reassuring. "Contrary to popular belief, I _can_ share... under the right circumstances."

Theo slides back into his seat before any more can be said and sets Draco's drink in front of him. "What did I miss?"

"Not much. Told Granger you want to ravish her."

Theo looks thoroughly unimpressed. "No wonder you lie so much," he says, "honesty is an art form, and you aren't very adept at it."

Hermione's brow furrows slightly. "So, um. Wait. He was... telling the truth?"

"He might have done so with a bit more finesse," Theo says carefully, "but he's... not incorrect."

"I didn't actually use the word 'ravish.'"

"You did just then." He shrugs. "Regardless, it's immaterial without mutual agreement."

"Stop making this sound like a business transaction," Draco reproves, "and let her talk."

"I..." she trails off and draws in a slow breath. "I don't know what to say."

"Say yes."

Hermione slants a glance at Draco. "How long have you even..."

"Been planning this? Wanted it?"

"Been _okay_ with it?"

"Ah." His lips twist, expression wry. "I didn't love the idea at first, admittedly. I don't share _well_."

"He's got a type," Theo says, propping his chin on his hand. "Smart with unruly hair. It's why he and Pansy could never have lasted."

Draco elbows him, and Hermione bounces her gaze between the two of them, a little helplessly. "I... I'm sorry, I can't... can you maybe give me some time?" she stammers. "This is all... very sudden."

"Is it?" Draco replies, arching a brow. Theo shoots him a quelling glance.

"You may have all the time you need," he says calmly, "I believe you'll find I'm rather good at waiting."

* * *

Hermione leaves the boys in Three Broomsticks a couple hours later, still feeling thoroughly baffled, mulling over both the proposal and the strange ease of conversation even in its wake. Maybe it's a Slytherin thing, but they have a gift for conversation which she herself has never possessed, and somehow even though it all _should_ have been weird, it wasn't.

That's probably what unsettles her most.

Before she's really thought it through she finds herself knocking on the door of Harry and Ron's flat, hoping against hope it is Harry who answers.

She's not that lucky, of course.

"Hermione." He looks almost as uneasy and confused as she feels, though it's not all that reassuring. "I wasn't expecting– I mean, er, come in."

"Actually," she hedges, "is... is Harry around?"

"I– oh." Ron swallows and glances away. "Yeah, he is. Harry!"

"Coming!"

Hermione and Ron have an awkward moment of staring.

"Look," he says suddenly, words coming out in a rush, "I really am sorry, Hermione, I didn't mean to upset you, it's just that I–"

"Ron," she interrupts, "please, just– I know." Hermione sighs. "I'm not angry anymore, I just... I'm not sure this is going to work out, either, okay, and there's... look, just let me talk to Harry."

The stung look on his face makes her stomach sink, but Ron steps out of the way with a tight, silent nod as Harry comes to the door.

"Hey, Harry. Have you got some time?"

"Of course," he says instantly, stepping out of the flat. "Come on, I know a place."

He takes her to a small café down the street, and they settle into a corner booth together with a cup of tea each.

"So," Harry says without preamble, "what's going on?"

The directness is a relief, but she doesn't really know where to start. "Well," Hermione hazards, "I assume Ron told you what happened."

"Yeah." Harry nods. "He was kind of an arse about it, but he's been... pretty miserable, honestly, since you two fought. He knows he messed up."

Hermione sighs. "If he can't let me live my own life, I can't be with him."

"I think he got the message." Harry takes a gulp of his tea. "If that's the only problem, I think– don't get angry– but you might be making it more complicated than it is. He loves you, you know. I mean, everyone knows it. He has for ages."

"It's... not the only problem," Hermione murmurs, staring down at her tea as though it's intensely fascinating, as though the answers lie at the bottom like Parvati and Lavender swear they do. "There's... there's someone else. Kind of."

Harry is silent for a moment. "Who?"

"Doesn't matter. The point is... I'm not sure I _want_ to make up with Ron."

"You're seriously talking about throwing away seven years over some other guy?" Harry sounds somewhere between incredulous and disappointed, and Hermione frowns to herself.

"No," she says after a moment, "because being with someone else would never– I hope– undo my friendship with Ron. It's not that I don't _care_ about him, Harry. But I care about you, too, and I don't want to date you."

Harry rubs at his eyes. "Okay," he says after a moment, "start from the start. So there's another guy. Have you and he...?"

"No. No, no, not... nothing's happened."

"But you want it to?"

"I... I think so."

"Does he?"

"Yes."

"I can't make up your mind for you, Hermione."

"I know." She's silent for a moment. "It's just... he's really... he's _interesting_ , I can talk to him for hours, and he's smart, and he doesn't get bored when I talk about arithmancy, and he really... I don't know. This sounds like Lavender and Parvati's dating mumbo-jumbo, but I feel like I connect with him. But... I've shared a lot with Ron, and I don't want to hurt him..."

"It sounds like you've made your mind up already." Harry's voice is hard, and when she looks up he is frowning at her. "I'm _not_ going to sit here and tell you to leave my best mate, Hermione. You want to, fine, that's your decision, but don't come to me to get told that it's okay."

"You think it would be a mistake."

"Yeah, I do. I think you'll regret it, honestly. Ron's a great guy, and he loves you."

"I know. I _know_ that," she says, voice strained, and drops her head to her hands. "I'm just not sure I'm ready to love him back. It was the middle of a war, Harry, I didn't _think_ about it then, and I– I'm only eighteen."

"So's he."

Hermione doesn't have anything to say to that, really, and they lapse into an uncomfortable silence as they finish their tea.

"I don't want this to drive us apart," she says suddenly, looking up at him anxiously. "We'll be okay, won't we? Whatever I decide?"

Harry sighs. "I think you're already apart from us," he answers honestly, "but I'll always be here if you need me, you know that. Least I can do."

Hermione's lips press into a tight line against the sting of the quiet words as they pay for their tea. "Okay," she mutters, "thanks."

* * *

Harry was wrong, Hermione thinks unhappily. She's always been different from him and Ron. It didn't keep her from being close, of course– close enough to risk her life for them time and again. But Hermione has never felt like a Gryffindor, exactly; courage never came easy for her like it did for them. She's better with research than heroism, better with books than people, and maybe she's spent so much time clinging to the only friendships she really had that she never learned to just _be_ on her own. Maybe she just hadn't wanted to keep being lonely, the weird smart girl in primary who no one had talked to.

She and Ron don't _talk_ much. Not really. Ron speaks with his actions, and there's something to be said for it– she has never had that kind of nerve– but really what they have in common is Harry. Harry, and a war they don't want to discuss.

Hermione misses dinner crying on her bed, wishing she had never gone to France that summer at all.

* * *

Hermione has been artfully avoiding Draco for a good week now– or maybe not so artfully, since she suspects he is letting her have her space– but she can't keep it up forever, not when they have a project to finish by the rapidly-approaching end of term. Throwing herself into her schoolwork has been a welcome relief from the rest of her life; schoolwork, she is good at. She knows the answers to that, and thinking about arithmancy problems is easier than thinking about romantic ones. Arithmancy has _answers_ , a precise right and wrong, and she doesn't feel like a stupid lovesick little girl when she's filling parchment with row upon row of meticulous calculations. She masters complicated transfiguration, practices the intricate flicks of her wrist for healing charms, memorises the ingredients for veritaserum.

She watches Draco too much across the room until she knows stupid little things she shouldn't know, like that he drinks coffee instead of tea in the mornings and takes his notes in blue ink instead of the usual black. He has a terrible sweet tooth, and when he thinks he's alone he mostly looks unhappy.

Hermione hovers uncertainly in the library half behind the bookshelves, not quite in his field of vision. Draco is sitting at the table they usually meet at, bent over the open book in front of him. She can see neither the title, face down on the table, nor his face, obscured behind the sleek fall of pale hair.

It's pointless standing there watching him read like some sort of creep, she decides after a moment, and so Hermione makes her way over to him and sits down in the chair opposite his at the table. Draco looks up at her, and if the faint smile he gives her is uncertain and brief, it seems genuine nonetheless.

"You're late," he remarks, though without accusation.

"I know, sorry. How are you on your part of the translation?"

"I believe," he says, pulling it out from under his book with a flourish, "that it's finished."

Her lips quirk slightly as she takes the proffered parchment from him. "So's mine."

Their fingers brush.

"Well," she says after a moment, "I guess we just need to put it all together, then, and look over it in one piece."

"So it appears." Draco is watching her, and after a moment he adds, "How does getting out of the library sound? I can feel the rest of our class breathing down our necks."

"I noticed that too," she agrees. "A walk would be good, maybe."

They take a circuitous route from the library to the main doors– Hermione wonders fleetingly if all Slytherins are habitually paranoid about being followed, or if it's just Draco, just right now.

"People keep talking about us," Hermione says suddenly, as they step out on to the grounds. Draco nods agreement and murmurs a few careful charms against the frigid air– neither of them are wearing cloaks.

"As are the gossip rags," he agrees, "the heroine and the Death Eater. Quite a story."

Hermione scuffs a foot through the dry, dead grass. "I hate the press."

"It can be useful."

"It usually isn't."

Draco shrugs, looking down. "I don't know. Father's off my back, now. His son's linked to the best-regarded witch of her age. Whether or not things that get reported on are _true_... that's not always the important question."

Hermione looks at him sharply. "Is that what I am? A way to get Lucius to leave you be?"

"Yes," he answers, "and no. Just because you're one thing... doesn't mean you aren't others, too."

She frowns to herself. "So what's in it for Theo? What's the bonus?"

He shrugs. "You'd have to ask him."

"You mean you don't know?"

"I've found," Draco answers, voice somewhat wry, "that as long as things are working out well from my point of view, I'm generally better off not prying into Theo's motives. Anyway, I'm bad at it– Theo may not lie much, but he doesn't give away much, either."

Hermione nods and falls temporarily silent, gaze not on him but on the lake. "I don't want to lose my friends over you."

Draco raises an eyebrow. "Which friends?"

She has no good answer for that, just looks down at her feet again. "I'm sorry," she murmurs, "I really am."

Draco just nods, but his expression is cold, closed off. "I know."

* * *

 _  
_

> _Ron,_

 _  
_

_I'm sorry this letter has taken me so long to write. I guess I just needed to get my head together and think about some things, but I know it can't have been easy, having to wait. So thank you for waiting for me; a lot of people wouldn't have. Your devotion is... touching. Incredible._

 _I haven't been very fair to you. I was just so angry, when we fought. It felt like you were trying to control my life, or keep me in a cage. I think it's good for me to make other friends (I was never very good at that), and I need you to trust me to make my own choices. Theo is a good guy, Slytherin or not, and it's nice to have someone who will go on about arithmancy with me for hours on end. It doesn't mean you aren't important to me; it just means you think arithmancy is boring, and I don't._

 _I know there are things about me that are going to drive you mad sometimes. I know you won't like all my friends– I've been getting along with Malfoy, lately, and I know you'll never be able to stand him (and probably vice versa). I just need you to take me as I am, and let me make my own choices. That's what I need to make this work– and I do want it to work._

 _Harry might have told you that there was someone else I was... interested in. Actually, to be completely honest, more than one someone. But I'm choosing to let that go. It would be stupid of me to leave now, when we don't know where we're going, exactly, but we have so much history between us already. I care about you, and I don't want to lose that. Maybe I was just scared, before– I'm not very good at relationships, and I don't want to mess up, but I can't just study the answers for this._

 _How does me staying with you for winter hols sound?_

 _Yours,  
Hermione_

She doesn't really feel any better as she watches the owl clutching her letter take flight, but at least now it's all done with.

More or less.

* * *

The last Hogsmeade weekend before the students head home for winter hols dawns cold and snowy. It's the sort of fat, fluffy flakes that get stuck in Hermione's hair as though she's been dusted with powdered sugar, only melting when she ducks indoors. The drifts build up throughout the day as she goes about her shopping, picking out Christmas gifts for her friends.

She should have known, though, that she wouldn't make it out without running into at least one of them.

"I hear your Ancient Runes project went well."

Hermione turns slowly, packages clutched protectively in her arms, to see Theo standing just behind her, dark eyes betraying nothing.

"Yeah. Yeah, it did, it... Professor Babbling said it was a 'nuanced translation.' We got excellent marks."

"I suspected you'd do well." A faint smile. "I'm glad, though. I know it's important to you."

Hermione nods, worrying her bottom lip. "Theo... can I talk to you?"

"Of course," he says, "but I was just about to head home..."

"Oh. Well." She drops her gaze. "It can wait."

"Or you could come with me."

Her head snaps up again. "Theo, Draco must have told you–"

"He did," Theo agrees, "and I wouldn't take anything you aren't willing to give."

Hermione is quiet again, looking up at him, but there is no guile in his gaze, or at any rate none that she can detect. Eventually, she nods slightly, and Theo offers her his arm as they leave the book shop to Side-Along her with him.

It shouldn't surprise her that Theo's home is practically a castle in its own right– he's old blood, she knows that, but somehow he makes it easy for her to forget. They reappear on a long path toward the main doors of the enormous old house, surrounded by snow-covered grounds.

"Welcome to Nott Estate," he says, voice dry, and doesn't let go of her arm. "You'd be wise not to wander it alone– there's some rather nasty blood magic left in some parts, but it recognises me. And it's rather easy to get lost, as well, if you weren't raised here."

The doors swing open soundlessly at their approach, and Hermione is struck all over again by the sheer size and opulent extravagance of the entry hall alone. Theo, however, looks faintly chagrined.

"It's always been in my family," he explains, and somehow it sounds like an apology. "After my father died, it went to me as I'm the last of my bloodline."

"It's..."

"Unnecessarily large and showy?"

"Beautiful," she finishes, and Theo slants a glance at her.

"Only if you didn't grow up in it," he murmurs, and Hermione tilts her head curiously.

"You don't care for privilege?"

Theo gives an impatient shake of his head. "You want to know what privilege is built on, Hermione? It's not about money and lucky birth. It's lies, blood, and cruelty. I _hated_ my father."

"I... I know he was a Death Eater," Hermione says haltingly, "but he was still your father, he must have loved you..."

Theo makes a derisive noise. "No. I was, at best, a tool. I was there to make him look good, do what I was told, and continue the bloodline. But I was never perfect enough, I subverted his precious cause every chance I got, and I fell in love with another boy. And he was a violent, power-mad bastard who took everything out on me. He _killed_ my mother; I think the only thing that kept me safe was being his only heir."

"I'm sorry," Hermione whispers, wide-eyed. "I... I didn't realise."

"He doesn't talk about it much." Draco's voice makes her jump; she has been watching Theo, not their path, and only now sees Draco on the sofa of what she assumes is the sitting room. "His father made mine look like a fluffy little kitten."

Theo nods acknowledgment. "Lucius cares for you, however unfortunate his way of showing it may be at times."

"Yeah. And, well, I have mother."

"Quite." Theo sits down and motions Hermione to do likewise. "It's the best-kept secret of the pureblood families, that we're all just a disaster. Privilege is the only compensation for all the fucked-up expectations, so of course we cling to it."

Draco's lips twist. "Well," he points out, "that is enough for some of us. It was for me, for a long time. But I didn't have Octavius Nott for a father."

Hermione glances between them. "I... I was afraid I'd be so terribly behind at school, coming from a Muggle family. But it was like primary all over again: I did so well in my classes, but I was the strange girl, the one nobody liked, and I hadn't grown up in your world."

"You were overcompensating," Draco says, "knowing more than the ones raised in it, well. No one likes being shown up. Made us all look bad."

"Father was furious a Mudblood– sorry, I'm quoting– was top of the class," Theo agrees, looking down at his hands. "I never understood why it mattered. He was as pure as they came, after all, and he was... a nasty piece of work. Bloodlines obviously didn't make you _good_." A slight, uncomfortable shrug. "It was smartest, though, not to say things like that in Slytherin."

"I feel like... like the divide is self-perpetuating," Hermione says thoughtfully. "I've given it some thought, since I got to know you, both of you. The other houses don't trust the Slytherins because they're sneaky and ambitious, so the Slytherins have to get whatever they want dishonestly because no one will cooperate with them, and they want power and respect because the other houses don't give it. But then that just makes it worse, and it all just spirals into... well, what we have now. This rift."

Theo frowns faintly. "That wasn't already evident?"

"Not from the other side," Hermione answers honestly. "I guess... Gryffindor doesn't really teach you to see the shades of grey."

"Hogwarts in general doesn't exactly encourage it," Draco says rather acidly, "and neither do a lot of our families, I expect. Leaves morals to come down to what you can live with and what you can't."

 _What you can live with, and what you can't._

"I can live with this," Hermione says quietly, but she says it looking Draco straight in the eyes as she leans over and presses her lips to his, pretends she's the brave Gryffindor she still doesn't always know how to be. Just for now.

Draco doesn't miss a beat; his arms slide around her waist as he kisses her back. He has thin lips, but they press into a kiss as easily as they twist into his habitual defensive sneer, and it feels good, and not much like kissing Ron at all, and right now she doesn't want to be thinking about Ron.

"If you keep that up too much longer," Theo murmurs, voice suddenly very close to her ear, "I might just get jealous."

Hermione breaks the kiss, turning to look at him; they are almost nose-to-nose. "Of which one of us?"

Theo chuckles quietly, a soft sound in the back of his throat. "That _is_ the question," he agrees. "I suppose I shall just have to entertain both possibilities."

Theo– quiet, staid Theo– is a far more aggressive kisser than she would have thought to expect, and soon she finds herself pressed back into the sofa, her hands tangled in his hair.

"You knew," Theo murmurs against her lips, "you thought this would happen."

"Maybe," she allows, and his teeth graze her bottom lip. "I did– mm– want it to."

"And Weasley?" Draco asks. Hermione opens her eyes, looking at him over Theo's shoulder.

"What he doesn't know," she answers softly, "won't hurt him."

"You should have been a Slytherin," he says, and she knows it's intended as a compliment, but it stings just a little bit, even so.

"If the lady has no objections," Theo says, the faintest hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his lips, "perhaps we might move this somewhere a bit more comfortable, and a bit less full of heirlooms?"

Hermione looks up at him with a sudden twist of nerves, and Theo curls his fingers around hers.

"Nothing you aren't willing to give," he reminds her gently, and she lets out a breath she hadn't realised she was holding.

"I'm willing," she says, soft but sure. "Lead the way."

* * *

Hermione wakes to the horrified realisation that she has stayed far beyond her Hogsmeade Saturday; if the light in the room is anything to go by, it's well into morning. A quick glance around reveals that Theo is up and nowhere in the bedroom, but Draco is still lying next to her, hair haloed gold by the light. He shifts when he sits up, and after a moment he turns his head to blink blearily up at her.

"I shouldn't have stayed so late," she mutters, and he reaches a hand out to catch hold of her wrist.

"Relax," Draco mumbles, voice still sleep-rough, "I'm a pro at sneaking back in. Anyway, it's a Sunday, you're not missing anything."

Hermione doesn't lie back down, though. "Where's Theo?"

"Being an obscenely early riser," Draco replies, and yawns. "He's probably been downstairs for hours already."

"Oh." A pause. "Do you think breakfast would be possible before the sneaking back?"

"I expect so. And coffee. Suddenly, I feel motivated." Draco rolls out of bed without any particular regard for modesty and begins separating his clothes from hers. Hermione blushes as she pulls them back on, looking-not-looking at Draco as he does likewise.

It's a good thing Draco is there to lead her to the kitchen, Hermione reflects absently, because Theo had clearly not been kidding about Nott Estate being easy to get lost in. The hallways are labyrinthine, but Draco seems to know which turns to take, and eventually they wind up in the right place. Theo is sitting folded into one of the chairs at the kitchen table, long legs bent up under him, with a mug of tea and a couple pieces of toast sitting in front of him.

Draco rolls his eyes. "No wonder you're so bloody thin," he says to Theo by way of greeting, and begins rooting around in the cupboards. "Or maybe it's the fact that you don't have any food in the house. I thought your family kept elves?"

"We do," Theo agrees, pausing to sip his tea. "I thought Hermione might object, though."

"She'll just have to object," Draco answers, "because we've already missed breakfast at Hogwarts. Plinky!"

A house elf appears with a soft pop– at least, Hermione notices, its tea-towel is clean and neat.

"Plinky," Theo says, "some breakfast for the guests, if you would be so good?"

"Yes, master Theo. What is guests be wanting?"

"Nothing too fancy," Hermione interjects quickly, "maybe just some eggs?"

"And coffee for me."

"Yes, masters! Plinky is having that ready soon."

Hermione and Draco settle into chairs as Plinky bustles about the kitchen; Theo is regarding his breakfast with a vague, distracted air, and Draco picks up the Sunday Prophet and pulls out–

"Are those the society pages?"

Draco gives her a quelling look. "When you _are_ society, you have to be caught up," he says stiffly, and returns his attention to it with an affronted air. Hermione just rolls her eyes and reaches for the front page, gaze glancing over the day's headlines before she settles in to read the articles themselves. A calm settles over the kitchen, and when Plinky serves their food they eat and argue lazily over the news, and Theo claims the crossword before Hermione manages to snatch it away.

She had rather hoped this wouldn't feel so easy, so... _normal_ , like something she could get used to doing every day. Draco has leaned over to offer unhelpful suggestions on the crossword and trail distracting kisses along Theo's jaw, and Hermione pretends to go back to reading and doesn't know if she's relieved or upset that they're going to let her go, that they aren't going to fight. They let her come to them, and now they're going to let her leave them behind, and a part of her– a desperate, wild, impulsive part she keeps so carefully locked down– wants them to tear her away from the easy stability of Ron and the life she knows she _should_ want.

Instead they kiss her goodbye at the door, and the next day when Hermione catches the train back to London she shares a compartment with Luna and Ginny, and it is Ron she meets on the platform.

It is Ron who she kisses hello.

**Author's Note:**

> A million thanks to my beta team: grey_gazania, an_narctica, and aveeno_baby. Without their advice and encouragement, this fic would probably have never even gotten finished. Extra thanks to grey_gazania for being an awesome cheerleader and sounding board whenever I got stuck, and an_narctica for being full of great advice on Ron.


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